


The Noctuary

by ihaveamigrane



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Academia, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blood and Injury, Confessions, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Flowers, Fluff and Angst, Internal Conflict, Libraries, M/M, Pining, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, References to Shakespeare, Strangers to Lovers, Summer, kind of? honestly i don't exactly know lmao, light academia au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27964643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihaveamigrane/pseuds/ihaveamigrane
Summary: George, son of a prestigious family, bides his time reading in a local library called The Noctuary in Brighton. One morning, George is interrupted from his reading by a foreign traveler going under the alias of Dream. Within the following months, Dream brings more excitement to George’s life than he’s ever had before.But the two didn’t acknowledge one thing that would change everything: Dream would eventually have to leave England, which meant leaving George.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 233
Collections: Best of DreamNotFound, Best of DreamNotFound AU's





	The Noctuary

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: this is fiction, and if the cc’s mentioned in this story are at any point uncomfortable with this sort of writing, i will take it down. although they have stated that they are fine with fanfiction and the like, please respect the cc's boundaries!
> 
> cw: slightly graphic descriptions of blood: begins at "dirty blonde hair was" and ends at "dream-!" if you feel the need to skip it  
> slightly graphic descriptions of leg/arm injuries: begins at "he was back in the forest" and ends at "when he opened his eyes" 
> 
> with that being said, enjoy :D

There was nothing that George loved more than the worn scent of crisp, yellowing pages in old books. Only the nebulous joys of childhood memories could compare to the nostalgia hidden in leather-faced novels, interwoven among printed ink like a fine gold thread. 

His earliest memory of the Noctuary was at age five, where he had been chasing his aging cat, Luca, around in his family’s garden. When the pesky animal escaped under an exposed bit of the iron fence surrounding the shrubbery, George decided to go after him. The Davidson estate was atop a hill that overlooked a quaint town, and as George chased after Luca down the mountain, he found himself in the world of the common folk. 

Nothing particularly interested him since George’s attention was focused solely on his cat that was dangerously close to disappearing from his line of sight. 

As he jogged along a beaten path, strands of overgrown grass licked at his ankles, irritating them - by the time he finally caught up to Luca, who was curled up on the doorsteps of a building, his porcelain skin was marked by angry pink blotches. 

“Luca, you silly thing,” George muttered, crouching down to gingerly pick up the smug-looking cat. Cradling him in his arms, George idly rubbed a finger behind Luca’s ear. 

With his pet caught and secured, George decided to finally take in the building in front of him. He felt his breath grow stifled as he looked up in awe, utterly entranced by the way the dark oak contrasted with the transparent window panes that reflected a rainbow. The large double doors' wooden frame was fraying at the edges with age; if George squinted, he could make out mold blooming in the cracks. A slab of marble was placed above the entrance, with the words _Noctuary Library_ carved into it with meticulous typography. 

He could hardly wait to see what it would look like inside. 

Unfortunately for George, the wonders within the library were particularly difficult for him to explore. His parents were dumbfounded as to why George wanted to use a commoner’s library rather than the luxurious one in his home. To be honest, George didn’t have the slightest idea either. 

Without the permission of his parents, the only way he’d get into the library was to sneak in and sneak he did - after school, after tea time, after dinner where he stayed up past his bedtime. There in the Noctuary, he read under the gleaming stars as the moonlight filtered in through the window panes, casting an ethereal light onto the smooth pages that crinkled under George’s fingertips. His only company was the smiling moon and sleeping busts.

Now, as George sat in a worn seat surrounded by bookshelves and marble busts, he flipped through pages that weren’t as smooth as they once were. Dust particles swirled around the empty space in front of him, illuminated by the morning sun. George’s throat felt sore from inhaling so much of it, but he was used to the feeling - it _had_ been nineteen years of dealing with it, after all. 

Oftentimes it seemed like nothing about the library had changed besides his age.

Carefully setting his novel down on a stool, he leaned back in his chair to let his eyes rest. As far as George could tell, the only other person in the library with him was a frail old woman with a burlap sack weaving through the rows of bookshelves; looking at the bulkiness of it, George deemed she was making some decent progress. 

The old woman left after half an hour, and by then, George was back to reading his book, lost in the depth of a fictional world. The warm English summer wrapped its arms around George in an attempt to lull him to sleep. It was succeeding; George’s eyelids were growing heavy, fighting against the urge to succumb to the warm air. He stifled a yawn behind an open palm, and the novel he held slid from his hands and landed in his lap. It snapped shut, the hollow sound muffled by the fabric of George’s trousers. 

When George shut his eyes, he didn’t realise he had fallen asleep until he felt a light tap on his shoulder. Blinking a few times, he looked up and felt his heart leap out of his chest.

There stood a man he had never seen before, and he looked so out of place among the monochromatic tones surrounding him that George nearly believed he was just a figment of his imagination. The stranger’s appearance made it impossible to deduce that he was from Brighton: his dirty blonde hair curled slightly at the tips; freckles spread along his tan skin like fine splattered paint; his eyes were a swirling pool of two shades of yellow. Oddly, George felt compelled to sell his soul just to see the actual colour of the stranger’s eyes. 

When George said nothing, the stranger retracted his arm and scratched the back of his neck. “So sorry to wake you, but would you mind helping me look for something?” 

“What?” George couldn’t stop looking at the way the stranger’s dirty blonde curls glowed golden in the sun. He was also perplexed by the man’s foreign accent. Was he a traveler, perhaps? 

“This library is just so vast, I can hardly find a thing,” the stranger said, chuckling sheepishly. “It’s alright if you can’t help. I’ll just keep wandering around at my own leisure.” 

Feeling a bit guilty about his lack of a response, George asked, “What are you looking for?” 

The stranger smiled in triumph. “Botanical illustrations.” 

Not a problem. “Right, uh, follow me then.” 

When George stood, he was taken aback by how tall the stranger was. Rationally, George knew that he was only about twelve centimeters shorter than the man, but he felt as if the latter could easily extend his arm over his head and brush the cathedral ceilings using his fingertips. The thought made his head feel light. 

Curling his toes in his loafers, George walked toward the direction of the illustrations. He didn’t bother to check if the stranger was following him or not. 

All that could be heard was the sound of shoes clicking sharply against glossy wood. The stranger behind him moved as if he were part of the wind himself, silent and sleek; George felt anxiety tapping against the notches of his spine, tension taught like the buildup of a drumroll. 

George rounded a corner and walked into an aisle hidden behind a marble pillar. The corridor was sandwiched between two bookshelves; an empty vase sat on a coffee table near the entrance of it. 

“Here you are. Are you looking for any author in particular?” George turned to face the stranger. He was taken aback that he was still there. 

“Not exactly.” It was a bleak answer; strange coming out of a man so intriguing.

“I guess I will let you look around then.”

“I guess you will,” the stranger’s lips quirked in amusement. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

And George walked away, fully believing that would be the last time he would see the strange foreigner. 

~

The sky was fading into a gradient, signalling the beginning of the end of an afternoon. Clouds parted; birds swooped low. 

The doors to the Noctuary library were pushed open, and a cloaked figure stepped inside. George’s gloved hands pulled down his navy blue hood, and his fringe fell against his forehead as his hair was exposed to the air. As per usual, the library was empty. He made his way over to the same secluded spot he had fallen asleep in that morning. 

This evening’s excuse was birdwatching. As far as his parents knew, George was trekking in the forest near town - he was to be home by ten after he had recorded his sightings. Instead of clutching a pair of binoculars, the young Davidson held a paperback. 

Pink and orange hues from the sky doused the library’s busts; it made them appear more alive than usual. Soon they would lose that quality to the darkness of the night. 

The grand clock ticked idly, and George read the time: seven o'clock. The sun would set very shortly, and the moon would take its place. Not that it would matter; George would be indoors, anyway. 

He flipped open his book and began to read, only to get through two pages before having his attention rudely diverted. Double doors swung open, and the stranger from earlier walked in with an air of confidence. Shrinking behind his book in a poor attempt to hide his face, George slyly peeked out from the top to observe the newcomer. 

He looked the same as he did when George last saw him: hair ruffled and barely tamed; tunic loose around his waist, covered by a dark frock coat; boots caked with mud. George shuddered at the sight of those dirty boots making contact with the pristine hardwood floors. 

Fortunately ( _is it perhaps unfortunate?_ George thought, despite himself), the stranger seemed to not notice George’s presence. Sighing - whether it was in relief or disappointment, George couldn’t tell - he relaxed in his seat and resumed his reading. 

At eight thirty, the sun was barely visible behind the trees. Fifteen minutes later, the sun had succumbed to the void of the night. As the time approached the ninth hour, the grand clock chimed proudly and the Noctuary was nearly pitch black. George lit a candle so he could read properly, the moonlight being insufficient. Nine-thirty: it was almost time to leave. George would finish the last chapter of his novel and then snuff out his candle. Fifteen minutes before he was supposed to be back from birdwatching, George finished the final chapter of his book and then extinguished his candle. He stood, buttoning up his cloak and pulling the hood over his head. Finally, he began to walk down the hall to the exit. 

George had completely forgotten about the stranger’s existence until he heard him clear his throat. George paused in his footsteps and turned toward the sound. 

“Have a good night,” the stranger whispered. It was unsettling seeing him in the darkness; he looked like a ghost, his tan skin pale, eyes glimmering, seated beside a window alone like a melancholic spirit. A journal was open on the table beside him. A blue flower was held delicately by his dexterous fingers. 

George was so mystified that he could only raise a hand and wave slowly in acknowledgement. 

Quickly, he left. 

~

George had a hard time sleeping that night. The summer weather made the temperature uncomfortably stiff, causing him to toss and turn until he couldn’t take it any longer. 

Lighting the lantern on his bedside table, he picked it up and went to his family’s garden. 

Sweat cooled on his forearms as he stepped outside. His toes curled around the trimmed grass, refreshing against his skin. Looming trees above him swayed in the wind. 

Walking up to the gate that blocked him off from the world below, he gazed at the smoke that arose from lit torches mounted on the walls of buildings. His eyes shifted to the Noctuary Library situated on the outskirts of the village. 

The library. George wondered if the stranger was still there, writing in his journal with the night sky draped across his shoulders like a blanket. George imagined the flower he held laying on the table, bound to wither away soon. Its gorgeous blue petals would shrivel and curl up into themselves, their brilliant sapphire colour turning dull brown. 

Since George did not have an opportunity to properly observe the stranger's flower, he did not know its species. Overcome with an unexpected urge to see the flower once more, George decided to look for it in his own garden. 

He had no trouble spotting blue flowers in the vast garden - blue _was_ the only colour he could see properly after all. He trekked amongst the flowers, stopping at every brush of blue plants to compare how similar they were to the stranger’s flower. 

Then he spotted them. “Brilliant,” George breathed, and he sat on his knees in front of a group of anemones. 

Each blue anemone was beautiful. Their petals were soft and delicate, and George carefully traced the edge of one petal with his finger. The paleness of his skin contrasted starkly with the dark azure of the plant. 

Just then, as he smiled slightly at the poppies, he decided that only one look at them would not suffice. He needed to have them by his side so he could gaze at them at his leisure. Before he could change his mind, he plucked an anemone whilst cringing. 

“So sorry,” George said to the flowers, “It had to be done.” 

But did it really? He did not know why he felt so possessive over the anemone. Was it because of its appearance or the stranger that led him to it? 

~

“Oh, isn’t it wonderful, sir? I haven’t seen butterflies like these in years.” 

“It truly is.” 

“Lord, I wish I could go out there myself. But,” Laura sighed, “there’s just too much to be done here. Have a good voyage, George.” Laura, one of the Davidson’s many servants, patted George’s hands and walked away, dress swishing in her haste. 

George looked out again at the scenery outside. Summer had been kind to the village below the Davidson’s estate - the yellow butterflies seemed to think so, many of them flying happily around each other. Some opted to sit on lush green leaves as their wings flapped idly.

He turned away, eager to step outside and walk down the path that led him to the Noctuary. Yes, it may have been odd that George would rather be indoors than spend his time in nature, but he had always been that way. He always thought that would never change. 

George hurried out the door. He began to wrap his cloak around himself, waiting until he was reasonably far from his home to pull his hood up. The only witness to his concealment was the clear blue sky. 

He went down the hill toward the rural community below, taking a beaten dirt path speckled with gravel. Few of the village’s citizens were out since many were still eating their breakfast in their homes. Those who _were_ out clutched the straps of their satchels and headed toward the fields nearby. 

As he walked up the cobblestone path that led to the library, he froze. 

There stood the young man who had occupied George’s thoughts for the last day. He, too, seemed to have been walking up to the Noctuary. But, he paused after he heard the sound of George’s loafers against the stone. 

The two stared at each other as pollen swirled around them, tickling their noses. George almost sneezed; the stranger was unfazed. Around them, the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what came next. 

Finally, George surprised himself by speaking first. “Good morning.” 

The stranger blinked. Freckles danced along the bridge of his nose, fair like the yellow butterflies that populated the town.

“Hi. You’re here again,” the stranger said, sounding surprised. 

“As are you,” George noted. 

“Do you come here often?” the stranger asks.

“I’d say so.” 

Falling silent again, the two continued staring at each other. Yellow butterflies began to take flight around them. 

“What’s your name?” George blurted. _What._ That was not what he wanted to say. Hell, he didn't even intend to say anything in the first place. 

Hesitating for a moment, the stranger said, “Dream.”

_Dream?_

“Dream,” George repeated sarcastically, “There’s no way that’s your real name.” 

“You’re right; it’s not.”

“Then what’s your real name?”

Dream gave him a bored look. “Why do you think I gave you a fake one?”

_Oh._ George pulled his bottom lip into his teeth as he felt his face heat up. “Sorry.” 

Dream sighed and shook his head. 

“No need to apologize,” he said lightly. “So. Are we going to keep standing here, or shall we go in?” 

George’s ears burned as his blush deepened. “Y-yes, we shall.” 

“Come along, then.” Dream smiled and began to walk. George followed suit, wiping his clammy hands on his cloak. 

Dream took a seat in the chair near the grand window - the same place George had seen him last. Today, however, he pulled out a white flower instead of an anemone from his bag.

George took a seat on the same couch he had always sat in. He took out the novel he had been reading for the past week from the inside pocket of his robe. He put a finger between the bookmark and the pages and cleanly slid it down the middle, opening the book with practiced elegance. 

After they settled in, Dream and George went quiet. The only difference between the two was that Dream seemed to be comfortably silent, whilst George was drowning in awkwardness. Words in his novel seemed incomprehensible to him, and each time he tried to focus on what was written, his brain would go fuzzy. George kept subconsciously licking his lips in frustration, his fingers creasing the corners of the pages.

Dream, on the other hand, was the definition of a precise work ethic. His penmanship was meticulous, and George could see Dream’s wrist flicking as he sketched out what George assumed was the white flower. Although his expression was lined with focus, his stature was relaxed, muscles seemingly unwound like an untied ribbon. 

“You know,” Dream stated suddenly, his hand still moving. George nearly jumped and turned away quickly, pretending to read as if he hadn’t been staring at him for the last minute or so. “You haven’t told me _your_ name yet.” 

“It’s-” George began, but he quickly backtracked once he realised what he was saying. “Yeah.” 

The foreigner raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?” He then put his pencil down and shifted his body so it faced George. “Is that your name? Yeah?” 

“Shut up. It’s not _yeah,_ ” George scoffed, mocking Dream’s accent as he said _yeah,_ “I can’t tell you my actual name. I’d like to keep that private.” 

As soon as George finished speaking, Dream barked out a laugh. “Wow, that’s awfully hypocritical of you, Davidson.” 

“W- _what?_ ” 

Panic overtook George, and he could only widen his eyes in disbelief as Dream laughed again. _What in the world is going on?_

“How do you-” George’s heart pounded against his chest- “how do you know my surname?” 

“Ah,” Dream began, “it wasn’t too difficult to find out. Everyone around here speaks of the Davidsons with envy. All I had to do was find an image of your family in the paper, deduce that you looked familiar among your siblings, and, well, here we are.” 

This was impossible. George was able to successfully hide his identity from the townsfolk ever since he first set foot in the Noctuary - he did this so he wouldn’t risk the chance that his family members would find out about where he snuck off to. 

“But I wear-”

“Yes, but you always take your hood off,” Dream interjected. “You must realise that your disguise is merely ineffective if you pull down your hood.” 

“I can’t read properly with it up,” George replied disgruntledly. 

Instead of laughing at George once more, Dream smiled in a way that rounded his cheeks. “I see. I suppose that makes sense.”

George didn’t know what else to say as Dream tapped his pencil against the table. “To be honest, it would be a shame if you left your hood up,” Dream mused. 

“Why?” George swallowed. 

“I wouldn’t be able to see your lovely face.” 

Dream cackled. George didn’t find it amusing. 

~

For the first time in years, George had regular company in the library. Early in the morning and late in the afternoon, he and the foreigner would exist in the same space as they read and documented. Surprisingly, the two had learnt a fair share about each other. Dream told George that he was a traveler from the United States and couldn’t tell George his real name due to the lack of commitment that came with traveling. In turn, George told Dream his name and his history with the Noctuary. 

One afternoon, when Dream was skimming through a rather large encyclopedia that George had found for him, the latter observed, “I haven’t seen you write anything in your journal for a while.” 

Dream used a pencil as a makeshift bookmark and closed the encyclopedia. He replied, “that’s because I haven’t been able to discover any more of the native flowers here.” He sounded disappointed. 

Without thinking, George offered to let Dream explore his family’s garden. 

_We have tons of species there that aren’t common down here,_ George had explained, face flushing. 

Miraculously, Dream had agreed.

“Wonderful,” Dream exclaimed, “absolutely _wonderful!_ ” It was evening, and the two had snuck in through the back gate of the Davidson’s garden. Both of them carried lanterns, illuminating the space around them without drawing much attention. 

George had never seen Dream act as excited as he was acting now; the traveler practically sped to and fro the variety of species, and George couldn’t help but snicker as Dream scrambled to take out his journal. 

“Calm down, yeah?” George suggested, walking to a marble bench and sitting upon its slightly dirty surface. “You have plenty of time, and I’ll let you come by whenever you’d like.” 

Dream whooped loudly, and George frantically shushed him from a distance.

“If you keep doing that, I’m going to redact my offer,” George teased, leaning back on the uncomfortable bench. Dream shook his head frantically, and mimed zipping his lips. 

George spent most of the night watching in amusement from afar as Dream wandered through the extensive garden, who was taking his time to properly take in his surroundings as his adrenaline wore down. The moon was full tonight, shining so brightly that George extinguished the flames in his lantern. Stars above winked at those below them in their all-knowing way. 

The wind that blew in from the north was oddly warm, and George was almost lulled to sleep; that seemed to happen to him very often. 

“George, hey.” 

George looked up from where he was thumbing the petals of a rose. “Yes?” 

Dream held up a small flower. “What do you think? For my next entry.” 

Squinting, George asked, “is that green?” 

“What?” Dream tilted his head to the side. “No, this is yellow.” Hunched over, Dream’s eyes locked with George’s. George’s white ascot felt too tight around his neck as he felt his mouth go dry. 

“Right. Sorry, I can’t see colours properly.” 

“You can’t?” 

Looking down, George shook his head. He clutched his trousers as insecurity flooded his veins like poison, coursing through his body, threatening to flood his eyes with tears. _Why am I getting like this right now,_ George thought furiously. _Why_ now _of all times?_ The insecurity shattered when a cool finger was placed under his chin; George’s eyes widened significantly as his face was tilted up by Dream. 

Dream’s eyes shone in the night, and his lips were a breath apart. He looked disheveled, face flushed due to his walk around the garden, and his hair was riddled with stray cowlicks. He was so _close_ that George was unable to think at all, the only thing bouncing around his head being the observation that Dream’s freckles looked like constellations. 

“George,” the traveler murmured, voice raspy like whiskey poured over sharp glass. “Don't be sorry for something you can’t control.” 

“Sorry.” 

“George.” Dream sharply inhaled, pulling his hand away. “It's not your fault.” 

No one had ever told George this. His parents had always seen his colour blindness as an obstacle, constantly impeding him from doing the simplest of tasks. His siblings had restlessly teased him for it, pestering him in childhood by asking him to differentiate what coloured objects were which, like he was some kind of test subject. 

He never knew he desperately needed to hear Dream’s words until he felt sleek tears slide down his cheeks, his breath hitching as Dream wrapped his arms around George in a tight embrace. 

They swayed a minuscule amount as they hugged, almost dancing in a way that only lost souls could. 

Instead of burying his face in the crook of Dream’s neck, George looked up at the blurred sky, tears continuing to roll down his face. 

The nebulous view was beautiful. 

~

Toffee melted in George’s mouth, coating his tongue with bitter-sweetness. Not a cloud could be seen; the sun had free space among the endless canvas that was the sky. George was lying down on the grass, small white flowers tickling his exposed arms. 

He lolled his head to the side to admire Dream instead of the sky. “What flower is that, Dream?” 

The traveler was hunched over his journal, sitting to George’s left as he sketched. His cheeks were the slightest bit flushed from the high temperature outside. “A red geranium,” Dream said, not looking away from his journal. His lips curved in a smile, however, and George felt himself imitating it. Dream finished shading the illustration of the stem, and he swiftly annotated it with compressed handwriting. He then shut his book and faced George - George’s nerves buzzed in anticipation of what might come next. 

“Here, I’m finished.” Dream gently tucked the flower behind George’s ear and snickered when he flinched. “All yours.” 

“I...” George gently touched the geranium in awe, huffing in disbelief. Dream never failed to surprise him with his elaborate and forthright gestures. “Thanks.”

“You’re so welcome,” Dream replied, standing up to stretch and presumably to go find another plant to add to his botanical collection. “I’ll be back, don’t fall asleep on me. We don’t want another wasp incident to occur.” 

George shivered at the memory of waking up from a nap to a wasp resting on the tip of his nose; he had screamed bloody murder, and he and Dream would’ve been compromised if it wasn’t for Dream quickly clamping George’s mouth shut with his palm, using his other hand to swat the insect away. 

Lazily, George waved in a gesture of reassurance. Dream waved back, albeit hesitantly. It was clear he didn’t believe George, and George didn’t blame him. He did have the worst luck, after all. 

Amazingly, his terrible luck decided to make an appearance; George fell asleep soon after Dream left. 

_The spring breeze that he once adored felt like smoke as he inhaled and exhaled in exertion. Where was he? Distantly, he felt himself running, the soles of his bare feet clashing painfully with twigs that littered the forest floor. Screams could be heard - who was screaming? He didn’t know, but he felt his body go numb at the sound. He could tell that the person screaming meant the world to him, so he ran faster, blood trickling between his toes. “Adonis!” He shouted - the name sounded vaguely familiar to him, but he didn’t know where he had heard it before. The screams got louder the farther he moved north. “Adonis,_ Adonis, _Ad-” He stopped when the distant screams ceased. He stood, lost in the middle of the forest, frantically looking around for Adonis. A stick snapped to his left, and he walked toward it, desperately fighting against the urge to buckle his knees. He reached a wall of bushes and parted them. What he saw made his head spin, and he fell to the ground as he began to cry._

_Dirty blonde hair was tattered with blood- thick, crimson liquid pooled under the figure’s torso, bright against tanned skin._

_“Dream-!”_

George gasped, sitting upright clumsily as he clutched his chest. Tears that didn’t belong to him tattooed his cheeks, and he wiped them away with shaking fingers. He rapidly blinked away fresh tears as he looked around, unable to spot Dream. 

The panic that welled up in his chest juxtaposed the vibrant and warm weather. 

He was unable to yell out Dream’s name lest his family or one of the servants overheard. George gritted his teeth in the frustration of feeling so useless, unable to fend for himself in the aftermath of a nightmare - a _nightmare_ , an imaginary event in his head that didn’t even cause him physical harm. 

“ _Bloody_ hell,” George nearly growled, curling up into himself and pressing his palms forcefully to his eyes. No tears came, but his body shook. “Christ sake, Dream…” 

“Yeah?”

It seemed like all Dream did was sneak up on him. 

George kept his face in his hands, and his breathing was still uneven, but the tremors subsided. “Nevermind,” he mumbled, eyes stinging. George didn’t hear a reply from the man that stood before him, but he felt a hand being placed on his shoulder. His touch felt warm, and George shakily exhaled as he pulled his hands away from his face. He didn’t look up. 

“What happened?” Dream asked softly.

This felt stupid. “I fell asleep and had a dream- it doesn’t matter, really, just some silly thing.”

“So you went ahead and broke our treaty by taking a nap? I’m wounded, George.”

An unexpected giggle bubbles up and out of George. “S-shut up.” 

Dream ignores him and wails dramatically, and George gasps and tackles Dream, nerves on fire as he covers Dream’s mouth with two hands. He still felt shaky and lightheaded from what had transpired not thirty seconds ago, but his mood lifted with Dream’s childish jokes. 

He punched Dream half-heartedly and smiled down at him, rolling his eyes when Dream wiggled his eyebrows. George could see that Dream’s eye color was nearly the same shade as the grass surrounding him. _His eyes are likely green, then,_ he thought.

But, as George continued to look into the Dream’s eyes, he could see the underlying concern. 

“I’m okay, Dream,” George said. 

“You sure?” 

He wasn’t, but he was quite suddenly sure of one thing: he couldn’t bear to lose someone as important to him and who cared about him so much as Dream. George beamed.

“Yes,” he whispered.

~

“What’re you making?” George mumbled as he rested his head on Dream’s shoulder. It was partly cloudy that day, but persistent sun rays filtered through, the thin yellow beams glowing mystically. The estate’s garden seemed to look slightly grey, accented by the ray’s light. 

Deft, tan fingers were weaving flower stems together. George observed through drooping eyelids. 

“You’ll see,” Dream said and chuckled when George groaned in impatience. He ran a finger along the spine of the foreigner’s journal, warily eyeing its decreasing amount of blank pages. 

A few more minutes passed, and George spent the entire time contentedly resting on Dream’s shoulder. George was roused from his sleepy state when Dream made a small sound of triumph. 

“Done,” Dream stated, gently moving the older man off of him so that he could place his creation atop his head. “Do you like it? I used blue delphiniums.” 

It was a flower crown. The delphiniums were an incredible shade of cerulean with white floral spires, and George felt his heart soar. Ever since he had mentioned that blue was his favorite color, Dream had gifted him nearly every blue flower in the garden. “Of course I do. It’s beautiful.”

Dream grinned cheekily and threw an arm around George’s shoulders, pulling him close. “I’m glad.” 

George felt like a schoolgirl as he felt his cheeks burn, the flame within him growing as Dream rested his head atop George’s. _Dream is an affectionate person, that’s all,_ he thought, not daring to look at the man beside him in fear that he would do something...unusual. 

“Thank you,” George said, watching the leaves on towering trees sway in the wind like waves in an ocean. 

“Ah, no need to thank me. Flower crowns are fairly easy to make - I can teach you sometime.” 

“No, I mean-” George sighed, realising that he was doing something that was, frankly, very unusual. “Thank you for everything.”

“What do you mean?” Dream sounded off, his voice breathless as if he had just run across town and back. 

“Just...before I met you, all I did was spend my days alone and secluded from my family members. Every day was the same: I’d sneak off to the library, read alone, sneak back home, and repeat the process. I-” He paused and surveyed the garden. “Before you, I’ve never truly appreciated the world around me. I’ve always been so _lost,_ but now?” 

Dream held his breath. George turned to face Dream as best he could, still in the latter’s hold. “Now I have you, introducing me to things I’d never thought I could love before.” 

Both have had their fair share of silent moments together - most often in the library. But they weren’t there now, and George’s heart beat so quickly he thought he might faint. Dream’s expression was unreadable. 

“Can I kiss you?” Dream asked quietly.

“ _Yes,_ ” George whispered.

The tension between them was so taught it snapped when Dream grasped George’s face and kissed him. 

It was like a tightly wound tulip had begun to bloom in George’s chest; petals parted to take in the sun’s - _Dream’s_ \- warmth. Dream’s lips were a bit chapped, but George didn’t mind in the slightest, letting out a soft sound when Dream tilted his head at an angle that made George see stars behind his closed eyelids. The traveler kissed like it was his only chance to do so: he cupped the sides of George’s face tenderly, but his fingertips were pressed firmly into his cheeks; his eyebrows were furrowed with some melancholy; he was leaning into George, shifting them in minuscule amounts until they were nearly lying down. 

Sensing the desperation in Dream’s actions, George gently pushed him off, their lips parting with a soft sound. “Are you with anyone?” George asked. 

“Only you.” Breathless, Dream surged in to kiss George once more. 

It pained George to put a hand to Dream’s chest once more. “No, I meant- are you with anyone in America?”

“No, I don’t commit, remember?” 

The tulip within him seemed to have opened to cloudy weather. 

Swallowing, George looked away and asked, “are you going to commit to _me_ then?” 

Dream looked heartbroken. “I can’t promise you that just yet. Give me time.” 

“Then _why-_ “ George began, only to be silenced again by Dream pressing their lips together.

He couldn’t let Dream go. He couldn’t, _he couldn’t,_ so against his better judgement, he clutched Dream’s shoulders and rocked them forward so that Dream lay on the ground with George on top. Not once did they part, even through George’s reckless maneuvering. Dream’s hands left George’s face in surprise, and they moved to rest on his sides. 

George could barely hold himself upright, sinking lower into Dream like a butterfly whose wings were clipped mid-flight. He pulled away when Dream nipped at his bottom lip, and George ran his fingers down Dream’s jaw as they caught their breath. 

“Would you like to visit my room tonight?” George whispered, the words almost lost and carried away by the breeze. “Not in _that_ way,” George clarified when Dream’s eyebrows rose, “I just thought that maybe-” 

“No, I get it,” Dream said, his smile small but genuine. 

To George’s surprise, it wasn’t too difficult sneaking Dream into his bedroom; Dream wasn’t overly risky, like he usually would be when coming into the garden (he would pretend he had the grace of a drunkard when hopping over the fence). Tonight, Dream stayed quiet, aware of the higher level of jeopardy they were in. 

“Here,” George said and motioned to a birch door at the end of a hallway. He turned to see Dream nod, but he could tell Dream wanted to say something, presumably about the door's unnecessarily tall height. 

When they walked into the young Davidson’s room, George felt like some unspoken rule had just been broken - a rule where Dream and his entire livelihood were not supposed to cross paths. It was truly something seeing his mate - _best mate? Partner?_ \- standing in the middle of a place he had spent his entire life in. 

“Is that an anemone?” Dream had walked over to the nightstand beside the bed, observing the vase that sat atop it with curiosity. 

Perhaps bringing Dream into his room was a mistake. George flushed, cursing himself for forgetting the existence of the flower he had picked late at night. “I- erm- yes, it is, but-”

“This is the first species I found when I first got here,” Dream said, scratching the back of his neck as his cheeks flustered. 

“Was it?” _Of course it was._

“Yeah,” Dream replied, and pointed at George’s bed. “May I?” 

“Sure.” 

Dream sat and patted the empty space beside him in a silent invitation. George took it after he carefully placed the lit candle he was holding on the nightstand. 

“Look at the way the light from the flame illuminates the petals,” Dream commented, moving his hand so it rested atop George’s. “It’s like someone took a paintbrush and added pristine highlights - it’s so delicate.” 

“I never took you as the poet type,” George remarked. 

“I used to write. I still do, but not as often as I used to.”

“Oh.” 

Neither said anything, but Dream’s calloused hand laced through George’s unblemished one, idly tracing the knuckles with his thumb. Their skin was given accents by the white moonlight, and when George exhaled shakily, the small sound threatened to shatter the fragile space they shared. 

“This may be an odd thing to say, and I apologise in advance,” George began. “But I remember the night when you documented that anemone vividly. I dunno why, but you caught my attention then.”

Dream’s hand tensed under George’s, and he hesitated before asking, “Is that why you have one here?” 

“Yes, it reminds me of you.” 

“Oh,” Dream breathed, as if he wasn’t expecting that answer. Unexpectedly, he placed his free hand on George’s jaw and kissed his cheek. “You’re too much.” 

George giggled and pushed Dream half-heartedly. “I could say the same thing about you.” 

“No, really, George,” Dream said, and a sly, competitive grin painted his features. _Oh, God,_ George thought. “You’re simply too much. Everything about you is wonderful.” 

“Stop teasing!” 

“I’m not! When I saw you for the first time, you looked so pretty sleeping under the sunlight. I almost didn’t want to wake you up.” 

“Seriously, cut it out!” George laughed, pulling his hand away from Dream’s grasp to cover his grinning mouth. 

“But you’re so pretty, George,” Dream insisted, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “You must know it.” 

Rolling his eyes, George muttered, “whatever.”

“Ah, your _fingers,_ too, George. Have you seen yourself turning pages? Opening books?”

“N-no, I haven’t paid any attention to that.”

“Well, you should,” Dream smiled. “It’s extravagant.” He clasped George’s hand with both of his, and he raised it up to eye-level. Flames from the candle reflected in the irises of Dream’s eyes, making them seem so much brighter than they already were. 

The moonlight and candlelight worked in tandem to illuminate the only things that mattered in the room to George: Dream and their clasped hands. 

Dream used his thumb to trace George’s palm's lines, the tickling sensation making George shiver. “See?” the traveler said. “Beautiful.” 

Overwhelmed, George dropped his head on Dream’s shoulder. 

“Aw, you’re blushing!” Dream laughed and wrapped his arms around George.

“I’m not.” 

“You so are. You know...the way you blush is just so-”

George full-on punched Dream then, burying his face further into his shoulder in embarrassment. Stifling a yelp, Dream patted George’s back reassuringly and said, “alright, I’m done.” 

“Good. I’m tired,” George mumbled, and he felt Dream nod, shifting them so that they lay together in the bed. 

Dream was so warm, hugging him from behind, that George had no trouble falling asleep.

_He was back in the forest, pebbles digging sharply into his knees as he sat still in shock. Dream was lying at an awkward angle, his arm bent unnaturally and his leg torn and missing. Tears continued to fall down George’s face, droplets making a small_ plip _sound as they made contact with the pool of blood that surrounded Dream’s corpse. He couldn’t bear to look at the mauled body any longer, so he forcefully shut his eyes and desperately waited to wake up._

_When he opened his eyes, he was still in the forest. He clenched his teeth forcefully as he saw the blood before him but froze when he saw a familiar plant blooming from the combination of tears and blood._

_It was an anemone._

He jolted but didn’t gasp when he finally woke up. This time, as unconsciousness blended into consciousness, George was left with the bitter aftertaste of confusion rather than fear.

The back of his neck erupted in goosebumps when he felt someone breathing softly behind him. _Dream._ He seemed to be in a deep but peaceful sleep, clutching George with slack arms. Gently, George brought his hand up to grasp Dream’s forearm in a small act of self-reassurance. He was still there, alive and solid, and he hadn’t left George alone and shivering in the middle of the night. 

He sighed and pulled Dream’s arms closer to him, relishing in the safety that the traveler unknowingly provided him. He caressed the fabric bracelet Dream wore on his left wrist ever so slightly, feeling exhaustion pulling at his eyelids. 

He would try to find out why his dreams were so familiar to him tomorrow; now, he just focused on the man beside him.

As George woke up for the second time, he distantly registered the sound of rustling voile curtains. He felt a light breeze tickling his exposed skin, most likely coming in from an open window. Fingers twisting in the bed’s comforter, George buried his face further into the fading warmth of the blanket. 

_Fading warmth…?_ His back felt strangely cold, and George furrowed his eyebrows sleepily. Mustering up a minuscule amount of energy, George turned himself around and patted the empty space blindly. His fingers made contact with a piece of paper, and he finally opened his eyes, squinting in the morning sun, and read the note that was written on it. 

_George,_

_I didn’t want to wake you, so I’m writing this explanation instead. I decided it would be best to leave fairly early - there are fewer people out to potentially catch me!_

_I'll be at the Noctuary; hope to see you there x_

_Dream :)_

“Of course I’ll be there, idiot,” George murmured fondly and neatly folded the letter. 

Even though it had been a couple of months, George was still weirded out by the prospect of having Dream, someone other than him, regularly residing in the Noctuary. The library was more of a one-hit-wonder to many - no one would visit more than once. On the other hand, George had almost _always_ been the first to arrive at the Noctuary, rising early with the sun just to read. 

It appeared to be that many things were changing lately. George touched his lips with his fingertips, tracing the lingering sensation of a mouth against his. 

He began to walk down the rows of bookshelves when he felt the edge of his cloak being tugged. Stumbling, George let himself be pulled into an aisle. 

“There you are,” Dream whispered. “I’ve been waiting for a bit.” 

“It hasn’t been _that_ long, Dream. What time did you get up, anyway?” 

“Hm. Four?”

“In the _morning?_ ” 

Dream laughed at George’s bewildered expression and slung an arm over his shoulder. He guided them to a table that had an array of books - presumably Dream’s - littered across its surface. Two armchairs were placed on opposite ends of the table. 

Dream took a seat. George did the same and shrugged the cloak off his shoulders. “Thanks for not waking me up, _Christ._ I would’ve seriously killed you if you did.” 

“I know,” Dream said, and reached across the table to pinch the end of George’s nose. George grimaced and slapped his hand away. “That’s the whole reason why I didn’t.” 

“Don’t be a smart aleck.” 

Instead of replying, Dream winked. Huffing, George stood and began to walk away. 

“Wh-” Dream’s teasing demeanor vanished. “Where are you going?” 

George wanted to snicker at his friend’s unwarranted panic, but that would be cruel of him. “Relax, I’m just going to look for a mythology textbook. I’ll return soon.” 

“Oh, I see. That’s- fine then. See you.” The blonde was pouting ( _pouting! What a sight!_ ), turning his head to the side to avoid eye contact. 

Unable to resist the temptation, George abandoned his supposedly “angry façade” and went over to ruffle Dream’s hair. Surprisingly, Dream didn’t pull away; instead, he wore a suppressed smile, the freckles on his cheeks hidden behind a blush. George pulled his hand away, and as a final touch, kissed the top of Dream’s head. “Be right back.” 

George headed toward the Greek mythology section of the library; that morning, he had realised why the name Adonis was so familiar to him. Some odd years ago, he read a short novel about Greek mythology that told the tale of a hunter called Adonis, a mortal among the gods. Frustratingly, he couldn’t recall the important details and meanings of Adonis’ death because George never actually finished reading the novel. 

A bust of some nameless philosopher guarded the collection of Greek mythology. George eyed the missing nameplate of the statue for a moment before returning to his search. 

He ran a finger across the spines of hardcovers and paperbacks that were arranged like an abandoned bouquet of flowers. He paused when he saw an oddly tiny hardcover. George took it and groaned when he flipped open the book and saw stanzas. 

“God, why isn’t this in the poetry aisle?” he complained, but backtracked once he read the title of the Shakespearean poem. _Venus and Adonis._

“Huh.” 

Legs propped up on the table, Dream was looking out the grand window beside him, holding a book with one hand: he was a perfect painting of nonchalance. When he heard George returning, Dream smiled and said, “You’re back!” 

“Mhm. Awfully clingy, aren’t you?” George sat in his seat, trying to ignore the ominous, metaphorical weight of the poem he held in his hands. 

Saying nothing, Dream returned to his book, the smile never leaving his face. 

The morning light illuminated the library's empty spaces, making the architecture seem more vast and empty than usual; the vaulted ceiling arched like the towering rib age of a prehistoric fossil. The vacant area was filled by dust falling like frayed snow, light with the weight of nearly forgotten memories from the past. 

The sight would have been comforting had it not been for the poem George was clutching, almost unable to bring himself to read the contents. Jaw stiff, he opened the book and began to read. 

He read about a man unaware of his enticement; a goddess of love who had come down to earth and stayed; infatuation over a hunter; sorrow following rejection; an allusion of the tale of Sleeping Beauty; Venus’ strange premonition that foresaw a perfect storm; death; tears; and a marred opinion of what love once was. 

Venus, known as Aphrodite in Greek mythology, was Adonis’ lover, yet their love seemed to be one-sided in Shakespeare’s interpretation. She could have prevented the death of Adonis, but his skepticism of her premonition killed him before she had the chance to save him. George felt sick, a looming sense of foreboding beginning to crawl toward him from the depths of his mind like a thick fog. 

His head pounded in an oncoming headache, relentless like the strikes of a hammer. George could barely hear Dream’s “you alright?” due to the blood rushing in his ears.

“Yeah, no,” George shook his head, the action making him feel even more lightheaded than he was. “I’m fine.” He then attempted a laugh, but the unamused expression on Dream’s face told him he failed miserably. 

Dream continued to stare George down, and at that point George realised that he must have looked more distressed than he thought. With trembling hands, he closed _Venus and Adonis_ and placed it on the table. He had no idea what to say, afraid that he might scare Dream off like Venus did to Adonis. Realistically, there were no parallels between him and Dream and Venus and Adonis, but George could not shake the eerie feeling of similarity. George found it difficult to look at Dream, so instead, he opted to look out the window at the open plains. He fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut when he heard the flipping of pages. 

They stayed silent for some moments - they were the tensest moments that have ever been passed between them. 

“George.” 

George slowly turned away from the window. “Yes?” 

“I don’t understand,” Dream pleaded. 

“I...know you don’t,” George admitted, hanging his head in shame. “I know you don’t.”

He heard Dream sigh in defeat. The shame was now overwhelming. 

“You don’t have to tell me exactly what’s wrong, George. Just do me a favor and realise that I’m here to help you, no matter the issue.” 

“Okay. Can we leave?” George asked. He wasn’t sure he could handle another minute of silence in the library. 

“Alright.” 

~

They were lying down together on a vast and empty meadow. It was noon, and Dream had urged George to venture out into the field together. He had discovered the land unintentionally when he had first arrived in Brighton, Dream told George, and he thought that George would enjoy the secluded space. 

Dream was right. 

There was no one around for miles, and the only soul who was with him was the one who he cared the most for. Said individual’s fingers thread through George’s brown locks, the sensation of rough fingertips making him sigh in content. He was comfortable laying in Dream’s lap, hearing the distant ripple of a lake’s water, disturbed by birds. Clouds as light as candy floss but as thin as a painter’s afterthought loomed in the sky above. 

“I love you,” George wanted to say. But couldn’t bring himself to do it, so instead, he shut his eyes and let Dream continue running his fingers through his hair. 

~

One afternoon, George’s world stops when he sees Dream reading a German dictionary. 

A myriad of possibilities racked through his brain, trying to figure out why Dream was reading the dictionary. As different as they all were, the scenarios all had the same end goal: to ignore the possibility that Dream would leave for Germany. 

He could be reading it out of boredom or curiosity. He could be interested in learning a new language. Maybe a relative was engaged to a German. But hope was diminishing like a dwindling flame, bound to be snuffed out eventually. 

George didn’t say anything. Dream hadn’t noticed George seeing him read the dictionary: so why bring it up in the first place? It would only bring attention to the fact that George was worried over a small detail, and the last thing George wanted was to have a potential conflict break out between the two of them.

So he decided to stay silent.

It was foolish of him to do so, and he knew it. George began to feel an insurmountable amount of worry and anxiousness growing within him, and he let it fester until he simply couldn’t take it any longer. 

“Are you going to Germany soon?” George asked. They were lying together on George’s bed, staring up at the ceiling as they waited for sleep to encompass them. 

Dream said nothing beside him, but he exhaled slowly in expected defeat. 

Finally, he admitted, “Yes.”

The candlelight was put out long ago, and the curtains were drawn shut, preventing moonlight from coming through. George felt as if it was easier to deal with what was happening in the dark. 

“When?”

“I’ll leave by the end of this month. I have to get to Germany by the end of the summer, and then I’ll return to America before winter. I’ve been meaning to tell you, I promise.” 

_The end of the month is in two weeks,_ George thought, and the revelation shocked him so much he turned to lay on his side, back facing Dream. 

~

The weeks leading up to the final months of summer were excruciating. George found himself rushing to do everything with Dream before he left, but time continued to slip through his fingers like a liquid with less viscosity than water. Nonetheless, he threw all caution to the wind and did anything he could to spend more time with Dream. 

One morning, the two visited the village's weekend market; Dream bought himself a new journal, and George bought assorted toffees. 

Another morning, the two were caught in the rain as they roamed through the forest, Dream wheezing as George complained about getting his cloak wet. They ran to seek refuge from the weather and found themselves laughing in the Noctuary, the sound loud against the rain pelting down against the rooftop. 

After a fading sunset, Dream had invited George into the small bed and breakfast he had been staying in. George had agreed, and they spent the night faffing about with the owners’ several cats. 

All the while, the transition into fall was beginning to feel and look more prominent. A slight chill began to ease into the summer breeze, and the flush in people’s cheeks were now a result of drops in temperature rather than allergies.

Gradually, leaves are beginning to brown, lush greens turning into reds and oranges. Dream had described a perfect fall to George one day. It was a wonderful recollection - George felt like he could see the world through Dream’s eyes, full of accurate color.

But in reality, all he could see were murky shades of yellow.

Two weeks wasn’t nearly enough time. Before George knew it, it was already the day before Dream had to leave Brighton. They had barely spoken all morning, sorrow from George and regret from Dream preventing them from having any sort of profound conversation. Small talk was proving ineffective, and George was torn between wanting to and not wanting to talk to the traveler. It would be too painful for George, but on the other hand, he wanted to tell Dream anything and everything. 

Generally, Dream was a very clingy person: a hand on George’s shoulder; fingers on the nape of his neck; a hand grasping his elbow. But not once that day did he do anything of the sort. He didn’t even hold George’s hand, which was something he always did. 

George looked down at his empty palm and frowned. The Noctuary's atmosphere felt stale and bitter, and George weakly shut the book in his hands, unable to muster up the energy to continue reading. At a loss, he diverted his attention to Dream, who was sitting across the table from him. 

The traveler seemed to be in the same boat. Currently, he was drowning himself in his work, writing in his new journal. To anyone who was a stranger to Dream, they might have thought that he was just focused on his work. But George knew that the frantic pace of Dream’s writing and the small furrow in his tense eyebrows told a different story. 

All George wanted was to ease Dream’s stress - by running his fingers through Dream’s hair, perhaps. Anything, really. He knew he didn’t have to try very hard to make Dream happy; that was something George prided in. But now, he had no idea how to comfort the man across him without pushing himself and feeling more pain than he already was. 

So, he curled his hand into a fist and restrained himself. The decision didn’t make him feel any better. 

They were leaving the Noctuary, having spent nearly the entire afternoon in the library. As the sun started to gradually set from its high place in the center of the sky, George felt his emotions sink with it. Internally, he was screaming at himself for the lack of communication, but George chalked up his resistance to communicate to his inexperience dealing with people. Alas, deep down, he knew he was just cowardly. 

He wanted to tell Dream to stay. He knew he couldn’t spend time without him; his already murky future would become painfully opaque without Dream to guide him. He had no idea what his future would hold; he had already finished his studies, but he had nothing to do and nowhere to go. George had always felt doomed to stay rooted in Brighton until the day he died. 

He _needed_ to tell Dream to stay. 

Later that evening in Dream’s room at the inn, he finally built up the courage. George was sitting on the younger’s bed, watching Dream fold his few pieces of clothing. 

“Dream?” he asked.

“Yes?” Dream responded.

Shakily exhaling, George tried to pick out the words he had wanted to say since he had seen Dream with the dictionary. It was a fruitless effort, and all he said consisted of one heartbroken syllable. 

“Stay.” 

Dream visibly froze. Slowly, he put the half-folded shirt on the ground and faced George. George almost couldn’t bear to look at the guilt in Dream’s eyes. 

In response to the other’s silence, George whispered, “You _have_ to leave?” 

Weakly, Dream nodded. “I do. There’s nothing substantial to me here.” 

“I thought I was enough for you.” 

_This was a mistake, this was a mistake, thiswasamistakethiswasamistake,_ he thought, and George’s hands began to shake uncontrollably. 

“George, that’s not what I-”

“No, I get it. Have a safe trip,” George said, or he thought he did. Maybe he didn’t. He didn’t care anymore, he didn’t want to care, so he left. 

He was crying. His throat was so tight and painfully dry, and his lungs felt torn. His head hurt so much. Everything hurt so much. He rocked himself back and forth on his bed, pressing his eyes so tightly against his fists he felt numb. He forced himself to suppress his sobs, afraid someone may hear him. Blood was trickling down his chin from where George was forcefully biting his lips. 

Everything _hurt._ What was he going to do now? Why did he let himself believe in a false reality? 

_He doesn’t love me,_ George realised, and his teeth dug into the flesh of his lips to suppress an onslaught of sobs so forcefully that his mouth tasted like metal. 

The hopelessness was overwhelming; the melancholy was brutal. 

George repositioned his hands so that they clutched desperately to his hair. He needed to be grounded so desperately, as he couldn't bear one more second of falling after having stability taken away from him so suddenly. 

He was falling, and no one was there to catch him. 

It took him ages to calm down, and when he did, he was so emotionally drained, he fell asleep. 

_He was back in the forest, and he was stuck in the same spot he had been in last time. It seemed as if he had been sitting on his knees near Dream’s corpse for centuries - the single anemone that had bloomed previously was now surrounded by more anemones, all the same shade of blue._

_However, Dream’s corpse still looked fresh, untouched by death’s rotting hands._

_“George.” The corpse’s lips were moving. “George.”_

“George?” 

He woke slowly, and he felt hands leaving his shoulders. George opened his eyes to see the traveler. 

“What?” George mumbled, sleep making his accent drawl. 

Finally realising what was happening, he gasped and distanced himself from Dream. 

“What-” he began, but then stopped. 

He felt his eyes widen when he saw wet marks on Dream’s cheeks. George had never dared to fathom that Dream could be in such a vulnerable state. Dream was always so intelligent and methodical, his charm alluding an ego so unbreakable everyone yearned to have his confidence. 

“Dream-”

“I’m so sorry, George, I didn’t mean it like that,” Dream rambled, voice trembling. “I shouldn't have said that; I just meant that _Brighton_ wasn’t enough- _George,_ you are _everything_ to me. I- _God, please-“_ Dream was on the verge of babbling, but he continued speaking. “ _Please,_ I want you to come with me.”

George probably looked silly as he gaped at Dream. “To Germany?”

" _And_ America,” Dream breathed, carefully clasped George’s hands with his own. “I’ll show you around! We can- we’ll go to the beach! The nice and sunny ones, not the dreary ones here. It’d be _grand,_ George, I promise you.”

When George didn’t reply, Dream’s face slowly began to fall, and his grip on George’s hands was starting to weaken. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you, George, and I understand if you say no. I treated you so poorly today, but that’s only because I couldn’t stand the fact that I was leaving you.” 

George felt a swell in his chest like the crescendo of numerous string instruments in an ensemble. He pulled his hands away from Dream’s and brought them up to Dream’s cheeks, wiping away the tears with a gentle touch. Smiling, he pressed the lightest of kisses on the corner of Dream’s mouth. 

“I’ll come with you, Dream.” 

“Clay.” 

“I’m sorry?”

Dream was grinning, tears of joy streaming down his face. “My name is Clay.” 

The future was still indefinite, but now they had each other. And that was all that mattered. 

**Author's Note:**

> woo if you made it this far, heyo! thank you for reading <3  
> a big thanks to len [(que_sera_sera)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/que_sera_sera/pseuds/que_sera_sera) for beta reading this work! mwah!
> 
> [my tumblr](https://ihaveamigrane.tumblr.com/)


End file.
